The mountain that went to the sea (12 page)

Barton Ashenden, for all I talk against them. Andrew's real gentleman. like when he talks to me. He's really got something. If I hadn't had a sore throat that time, I might have gone to Nana Bindi an' copped a dance with Andrew. That 'ud have been the day!'

`Yes . . . well . .. you can't be on two sides at once. Jason's our bread and butter, young miss, so that's where we stay. An' when those Ashendens come in — don't you forget it.'

Outside, Jason's station-waggon spun round a curve and pulled up under the same tree by which Jeckie had parked Evan Clinton's utility. He heaved himself out of the waggon, dug both hands in his pockets and walked over to the utility. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and looked down at the kelpie. The dog had sprung through the open side window of his car as the shortest and quickest way of joining his master.

`What goes, Ranger, old boy?' he asked. 'That's a stranger utility for this corner, eh? Belongs to old Clinton.'

The dog thumped its tail once, then walked across to the side wall of the store. He looked up at the window, his ears pricked.

`Someone in the rest room?' his master asked him. `Someone you know?'

Jason crossed the distance between the trees and the lean-to veranda shading the store's doorway. He and the dog, as if of one mind, stopped and looked up the track in the opposite direction.

`I think, Ranger,' Jason remarked as much to the air as to the dog, `we're in for a day of surprises. That one's not Barton because Barton's using the Land-Rover. My right or wrong guess is that that car coming like a dust ball round the far track is the Mallibee Fairlane. That leaves no one to be driving it but Andrew.'

He bent down and rubbed the dog's ear between his fingers.

`Confrontation day, eh?' he said, mildly amused.

The dog, sitting now, his ears still pricked, looked up the track and thumped his tail again.

`Don't tell me a kelpie dog doesn't talk in his own

language,' Jason said to Mrs Stringer who had, at that moment, come on to the veranda. 'He knows who that is coming down the track and he's said so.'

`Oh, you and that dog!' Mrs Stringer exclaimed. 'He oughta be out rounding up a mob of sheep. Nothing less than ten thousand is a week's work for those red cloud kelpies.'

`Well, well!' Jason grinned. 'Maybe I'll take up a big enough run of good pastoral country again — just to give Ranger his daily exercise. Pity he's not a blue-heeler. It's cattle that's likely to be run on that new stretch of grassland Westerly Mine has surveyed for us.'

`That's Andrew Ashenden coming over the rise now, all right,' Mrs Stringer said, shading her eyes with one hand. `What do you suppose he's coming for? Not like one Ashenden to call in at the store, let alone two of them. Both in one day too.'

`Trouble at Mallibee, I'd guess. And nothing to do with cattle or sheep.' Jason was also watching the approaching car.

`Just human beings, eh, Jason? I wish I had half their property. I'd take their troubles along with it and not give a darn.'

`The dog told me you've got someone caged up in the rest room and it's not Evan Clinton, though his utility is over there.' Jason's eyebrows wavered a shade higher than normal. 'It wouldn't be the fair Ashenden cousin back again, would it?'

`Which one would you be guessing at, Jason?' asked Mrs Stringer. 'The one who came out with Barton in the Mallibee Land-Rover? Though how she's come to swap the Rover for a Clinton utility so fast remains yet to be seen. You go right in and discover for yourself, Jason. I like to keep out of Ashenden affairs. That way I keep out of their kind of trouble too. Funny, but people who've got property seem to have more troubles along with it than us what's got none.'

`A truer word you never said.' Jason gave a rueful grin as he stepped on the veranda and went through the door into the store.

All was silent, cool and darkened inside. Jason trod quietly over the boards as he moved towards the bamboo

curtain between the main store and the rest room. Outside came the sound of the Mallibee car blasting to a stop.

Jeckie, half awake, half asleep, heard the outside skid of tyres as a fast-moving car stopped — almost in its own length.

She lifted her head. Jason came in. Jeckie's feet shot down and shoved themselves into her shoes.

`You beat me to it,' Jason said, the familiar smile in his eyes again.

'My shoes get lost of their own accord,' Jeckie said with dignity. 'I don't have anything to do with it. But you are saved from saying your prayers this time.'

His eyebrows shot up. 'So that's what I do when I perform the Raleigh act, is it? I must remember to put a word in for us both with the angels next time. I pray in that very particular way, you know. I'm fond of angels—specially as they don't wear shoes. Always barefooted. Next time—'

Jeckie straightened up. 'I'm afraid there won't be any next time ... that is, if I can help it,' she promised, her blue eyes bright — and wanting to be friendly, but struggling a little with a certain stubbornness, 'I was dreaming that a car stopped outside.'

`One did in true Ashenden style. It almost spun to a stop.'

`It must be Barton come back for me.' She stood up, at the same time throwing her hair back over her shoulder.

She was not very big and somehow the smiling Jason suddenly seemed to loom in this small room. He dug his thumbs in his belt, rocked on his heels, and looked down at her.

`Not Barton,' he said, shaking his head. 'It's Cousin Andrew, I'm afraid.'

`We are cousins too, you and I,' Jeckie said.

`I'm not a very popular one, I'm afraid, Not popular with Andrew and Barton anyway. But perhaps you and I can be friends?'

`Yes, of course. Do we shake hands, or something? Sort-of making a bargain?'

`It would be rather nice to shake hands with you, Jeckie,' he said. 'Thank you for thinking of it.'

Jeckie put out her hand and Jason took it. He held it just that minute long, as he looked down at her.

'I hope we are friends,' he said. 'Good friends. That's more important than being related.'

'Yes. I know . . Jeckie said almost shyly. She took

her hand back into her own possession.

'Then let's not get into hot water dallying here.' Jason smiled as he spoke. 'Andrew will think the worst. He always does, you know.'

'Because you sold the mountain? You did, didn't you? You are the one —'

He nodded. Quite serious now. 'Because I sold the mountain,' he agreed solemnly. 'I am the guilty one.'

'Oh well . . Jeckie said, looking down at her shoes thoughtfully. 'I didn't know, but I sort-of guessed. We still have nearly a million acres at Mallibee, don't we? What's in a mountain!'

'A lot of wealth.'

'Did you make a lot of money out of selling it?'

'Some, but not as much as Westerly-Ann will make. Not as much as Australia will make in selling that same mountain overseas.'

'I see.' Jeckie did not quite see but she thought there was time enough another day to find out what the whole transaction really meant. 'I think I'd better go now, Jason. That is, if Andrew has . . well . . . Would he have come for me, do you think?'

'I'm reasonably sure he has. The air talks, you know. I think he's come to rescue you from dangerous acquaintanceships.'

Jeckie looked surprised. 'Meaning — ?'

His smile shone again. 'Meaning Joe Blow, no less. In this case it's just another name for "Jason Bassett".'

'Well . . . if you'll excuse me, I'll go,' Jeckie said, reluctantly. 'You see . .

'You don't want to offend your hosts. You are quite right. Goodbye, Jeckie. You'll come and see us again — here at the Turn-Off, won't you? Remember — we've shaken hands!'

'I'll remember of course. Goodbye . . . Jason.' Dear Jason — she added under her breath.

'Goodbye, Jeckie,' he said again gently — almost as if he had heard her unspoken thought.

Andrew Ashenden unfolded himself from the front seat of the car and hefted his long legs out on to the gravel. He walked round the car and kicked each of the tyres to test the pressure.

As Jeckie came across the veranda he was moving away from the shade trees and looking north along the track that Jeckie had earlier taken with Barton. He had a sort-of wary tirelessness about him as he walked. He moved in a smooth, loose-limbed way that somehow warned rather than appeased.

He was staring, eyes narrowed, under the brim of his hat to where a dust ball was growing larger second by second. It was the Land-Rover coming back to the Turn-Off.

`Hallo, Andrew!' Jeckie said — not too eagerly, because she was just a little afraid of Andrew and his omnipotence. Yet anxious to be in his good graces — if that was remotely possible.

He swung round, lifted his hat, then settled it back again, the brim well down on his forehead. He was not smiling, but his eyes were thoughtful in a more or less kindly way. At least — so Jeckie hoped.

`I came to get you,' he said. `What was Barton up to? Leaving you here ... ?'

'Oh! He had something important to do. Does it matter? He wanted to go with Mr Clinton to see about some "pegging" — whatever that really means. He thought the tracks were too rough for me, and sent me back in Mr Clinton's utility. I could hardly go where I wasn't invited, Andrew. Well, could I?'

He moved back to his own car and opened the passenger door. 'We'd better be going,' he said. `Aunt Isobel is a worrier. She's wondering what you were up to.'

`Me up to anything?' Jeckie asked, tilting her chin. 'Why, Barton brought me out here. Look, Andrew . . . that's the Land-Rover coming now, isn't it? Don't you think

I had better go home with Barton? I mean, he brought me out and I'm sort-of his passenger.'

Andrew ignored this. 'We don't come to the Turn-Off as a matter of general practice, Jeckie,' he said. His eyes —fine eyes with little flecks in their greyness — were chilly. 'I think we'll go home, you and I, if you don't mind, Jeckie. Barton will follow in his own time, I've no doubt.'

Ranger the dog was tired of sitting. He stood up, shook himself and strolled over to Andrew and Jeckie. He looked up, his ears lying flat back on his head and his tail making tentative wagging movements.

`That's Jason's dog, Ranger,' Jeckie said. 'He's beautiful, isn't he? We've only met twice but he knows me.'

Andrew looked down at the dog.

Oh dear, Jeckie thought. Why can't I keep quiet? Jason is the enemy — so Andrew's attitude is bound to be 'hate me, hate my dog'.

But — surprise, surprise! Andrew bent down and stroked his forefinger along the dog's back.

`He's a good dog,' he said. 'A red cloud kelpie. These dogs are about as intelligent as the average man. Out here they can do anything a man can do — except use language as a means of communicating.'

'I'm glad you like him,' Jeckie said, relieved. 'He's beautiful. It's not his fault he's owned by Jason, is it?'

Andrew straightened up. He pushed his hat to the back of his head, lifted it, then settled it back on his brow again. His eyes were thoughtful, but still distant.

He spoke quietly. 'So you know about the family quarrel, do you, Jeckie?'

'Not exactly know about it.' She shook her head. 'Just that there is one. It's about a mountain, isn't it?'

Andrew looked at her quizzically: not angrily as she had expected.

'That, and some more. The last is more important,' he said. 'The less you know about it, the better. We do not take personal differences into the homestead — for Aunt Isobel's sake. And Jane's, too, of course.'

And Jane's, too, of course? — Jeckie all but echoed. 'Andrew, please tell me. Who really runs Mallibee? You

or Aunt Isobel? Or should I say — Aunt Isobel and nice, kind Jane?'

Barton had driven up and had come to a stop a short distance along the track from Andrew's car. He was now leaning with arms folded on the steering wheel, looking straight out at them from under his dust-covered hat. Jeckie guessed his smile would be both knowing and wicked.

`I
run Mallibee, of course,' Andrew said abruptly. Jeckie thought that at this moment Andrew was not very pleased with Barton. But he was not a 'shouting man'. Nor even an argumentative one. When he went quiet he was probably at his most dangerous. That is, temper-wise — if he had a temper. There was always a touch of remoteness about him. Almost as if there was — somewhere — an element of shyness in his make-up. A reluctance to put his thoughts forward, as it were. And this from strength: not weakness.

Evan Clinton hoisted himself, back first, from the Land-Rover.

`See you later, Barton.' His reedy drawling voice carried over the pan-still afternoon air. 'Don't forget what I told you, fella. See you at the week-end. Well do a little more peg-shifting, eh?'

`Okay, old chap. See you at the week-end.' Barton did not turn his head. He might have been talking to the air.

At that moment the kelpie stirred. His tail went up in its half-circle curl and he moved towards the veranda.